


i wanna confess it in a whisper that’s just loud enough to make out

by brotherfuckersanonymous



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-27 06:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15018617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brotherfuckersanonymous/pseuds/brotherfuckersanonymous
Summary: Someone’s waiting in Bruce’s bedroom when he gets home.





	i wanna confess it in a whisper that’s just loud enough to make out

**Author's Note:**

> this is just bad and extremely stupid and i’m sorry 
> 
> bruce is drunk in this fic and jerome very much is not. i didn’t tag this as noncon because i didn’t want that to automatically scare people, but this is technically nonconsensual. if that makes you uncomfortable, you can jet now. 
> 
> this is technically set during bruce’s bratty party whore phase and i don’t know why jerome is out of arkham, but it doesn’t matter because it’s three a.m. and all i want is for them to fuck

The staircase seems so much steeper than it usually is and Bruce isn’t doing well in terms of navigation or coordination to begin with. He clutches the rail and pulls himself along, trying not to stumble. He practically fell out of the cab on his way in here anyway. He thinks he gave the driver two-hundred in cash. Was that enough?

Going home to the manor alone and _being_ there alone isn’t the most wonderful feeling in the world, but Alfred not waiting up for him this time is something he has to be grateful for. He does have a few voicemails he’s ignored tonight, though. And he’ll get scolded tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter. Bruce scoffs aloud and it sounds way louder than it should in the enormous hallway. 

When Bruce tromps over to his bedroom door and flings it open, his mental circuits are too full of syrup to process the fact that the moonlight streaming in from the wide windows is illuminating Jerome Valeska’s scarred, disfigured face at first. Jerome Valeska is sitting on Bruce’s bed, toying with the sharp, glinting end of a switchblade. 

“. . . what the hell are you doing here?” Bruce asks, more confused than anything. Anger, fear, and disgust are taking a second to kick in. “You’re on—you’re on my bed. Where I sleep. Get out. You’re s’posed to be in jail.” 

Jerome giggles, sounding genuinely amused this time in place of what always seems mocking and forced. He throws his knife in the air and catches it again. “One too many tonight, huh, Brucey boy?”

”Get _out_ ,” Bruce says loudly. “I’ll call James Gordon and the whole, the, all of the members of the GCPD so they can arrest you again. You’ll go back to—he’ll take you back to Arkham Asylum. Get out, Jerome.”

” _Reeeally_  not how you’re supposed to treat your guests, Bruce. I’d say you’re supposed to offer me a drink, but, uh, let’s face it, you probably don’t have much left to offer after tonight.” Jerome grins, the abused cut of his lips stretching as he bites down on the blade of his knife. “I heard you bought yourself a club, though. I bet dear departed daddy’s real proud of you.”

”Fuck off,” Bruce snaps with the most conviction he’s been able to force into his voice all night. “Why did you come here? What d’you want from me?”

Jerome shrugs and absentmindedly runs his tongue along the switchblade. Bruce watches it with a kind of dumb curiousness. “I wanted to see you. Wanted to see how big you’ve gotten.” His eyes shine under the moon. “You just keep gettin’ prettier, don’tcha?”

A strange fluttering fills Bruce’s chest. It’s similar to the feeling he gets when he talks to Selina, but it’s deeper and heavier and it carries a guilty weight that drags him down. He wants to get rid of that right away. Bruce shakes his head and clears his throat. “Get out right now. And don’t—don’t call me pretty. I’ll call the police if you don’t leave my room.” 

“Jesus, you sound like that girl I met in Central City. Circus spent a couple nights there, I went out after a show to get away from my whore mother so she wouldn’t jerk herself off to some guy beating my lights out with a frying pan and his own fat, wrinkly cock, and I caught up with some blondie who was trying to get autographs.” Jerome throws the switchblade up in the air again and catches it between two fingers. “Told her I’d snatch her something from the Graysons if she gave me head, but she didn’t know I was talking about her _whole_ head at first.”

Bruce stares at Jerome in bemusement as the latter laughs himself sick. It takes a second for Bruce to be able to talk again.

“You need. . . to get out. . . of my room, Jerome,” he says, making sure to form the words in clear-cut syllables. “If you wanna—if you’re gonna kill me—I don’t want you to kill me now. You shouldn’t kill me this way. Not now. There’s no one else who can see you kill me, right? So—”

“Aw, Bruce, I don’t wanna kill ya. Not now. Definitely not now. I just wanna spend some, ah, quality time with you.” Jerome slips the switchblade back up his sleeve and gets to his feet, crossing the room the way a cat slinks across a floor to pounce on its prey. Bruce definitely feels like prey and he stumbles back, protected from falling only by his dresser digging into his elbows. 

Jerome is taller than Bruce. Taller and heavier and more well-defined in a way that doesn’t exactly make Bruce feel inadequate, just intimidated. Bruce has a structure and bones like a bird, slim and long but lightweight and thin and tiny. Jerome makes Bruce feel more breakable and there’s a horrifying feeling lapping at his heels right now that makes him think he sort of likes it. Nevertheless, familiar anxiety and fear melt in cold threads down Bruce’s spine, spinning webs up and down through his throat and his stomach. He feels stuck and, through the thick slurry in his mind, he thinks he really might be right now. He can’t move. Not with Jerome so close to him. 

Bruce can hear Jerome’s breathing in the darkness that closes in so much it seems to amplify every little sound. After spending hours of being surrounded by pounding music and a glorious cacophony of voices and golden elites and attention, this has a terrifying kind of intimacy. Especially with Jerome’s nose almost brushing Bruce’s. Bruce’s body is buzzing and humming from everything he drank and the fluttering in his chest that won’t go away. 

“I remember looking at you during the first time I ever got to be on stage,” Jerome whispers. He presses the flat of the knife against Bruce’s cheek. It’s freezing cold against Bruce’s flushed skin and it makes Bruce shudder, his lips parted in an effort to say something that won’t come out. “You were just a little bump in the road, little rich boy, you were just my ticket to stardom, I didn’t care about you before I saw you, but when you came up to _volunteer_ , I remember exactly what I saw.” Jerome tilts the switchblade so one side almost, almost cuts into Bruce’s skin before he flicks the thing back up his sleeve. 

“I wanted to fuckin’ defile you, Bruce.” Jerome leans in and brushes his tongue over Bruce’s lips. Bruce lets out a tiny gasp, alarm bells ringing very, very dully somewhere in a corner of his mind that’s telling him he shouldn’t be closing his eyes, but he does anyway, letting them fall shut. When Jerome kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry, Bruce almost passes out from the internal chemical rush. 

Jerome kisses Bruce in dirty, disgusting way that Bruce hasn’t ever felt before. It’s all tongues and teeth and a slick mess of greed and pain that he just doesn’t know. Definitely not from Selina. Not from anyone else. Bruce clutches at Jerome’s hair just to keep somewhat of a grip on reality and to help him not let his knees give out. 

Maybe if Bruce weren’t so physically incoherent, he might be repulsed to the point that he couldn’t bear this any longer. Jerome Valeska killed his mother. He is a murderer and Theo Galavan’s poster child. He’s sick in the head and at heart and he’s going to kill people again, possibly people Bruce loves and Bruce himself. Jerome doesn’t deserve anything other than an iron cell so his clothes can rot off his back. 

So why is Bruce letting this happen anyway? It’s hard to even think at all right now, so Bruce trying to punish himself when all he should be doing is holding himself upright is too sticky and unpleasant and distracting. He grabs fistfuls of Jerome’s jacket, whimpering when Jerome sucks the cut on his lip. 

Jerome breaks away and it leaves Bruce in a state of dizzy loss, reaching out again for more. He can hear Jerome’s low laugh in his ear that sounds like rust. Like the color of his hair. Bruce dimly recognizes that he’s being lifted up and his back hits the sheets on his mattress, a few loose black curls falling around his forehead.

Jerome is on top of him before he can think to react. Bruce’s heart thumps with harsh purpose against his ribcage as Jerome pins Bruce’s wrists down against the bed with one hand, the other splaying over the sheets, holding himself up. Jerome slips his thigh between Bruce’s legs and it sends this delicious shiver through Bruce’s body that makes him lose all sense of self. 

Jerome does kiss Bruce again, making him pliant, but he’s also busy pushing up the hem of Bruce’s sweater, fingers fitting themselves into the dips of piano-key ribs. Bruce feels Jerome’s touch like it's ice on his body, gasping and twitching. This is wrong, this is wrong, Alfred doesn’t know if he’s alive or dead, Jerome needs to be in the hands of the authorities, is Selina still his girlfriend? Everything about this is wrong but Bruce still arches into Jerome’s touch regardless. 

Jerome pulls on Bruce’s lip with his teeth when he breaks the kiss this time, drawing blood. Bruce whines and claps his hand to his mouth, mindlessly wanting to cover up evidence like that and hide his little kittenish noises. 

“Fuck,” Jerome breathes, looking alive and more human than Bruce has ever seen him, even through his zombification. Bruce can see what the moonlight catches: the scars that tear at Jerome’s face, making him look like the kind of person he’d always been under his flesh. He‘s his own horror film, but he'd take that as a compliment, Bruce figures. “You’re perfect, Brucey. Your fucking _mouth_.” He nips and kisses the column of Bruce’s throat, reaching down between them both and unbuttoning Bruce’s pants. 

“What are you—?” Bruce’s voice pitches too high for a moment and he has to swallow. Jerome snickers and jerks Bruce’s slacks to his thighs before palming his cock through his briefs. 

“Oh my God,” Bruce manages, shutting his eyes tight. He hasn’t ever even gotten this far before with another human being, let alone a boy, let alone _Jerome Valeska_. He squirms and rolls his hips up against Jerome’s hand, which, well, Jerome finds this  _very_ amusing. 

“You’re so hard for me,” Jerome murmurs, his tone low and soft, his voice different enough that it catches Bruce off-guard. It’s nothing like the childish or grandiose or growling voice Jerome likes to use. It makes him sound older, less rough around the edges. “You want me to fuck you?” 

Bruce can only hear that through a haze and the words don’t really register for a moment, let alone hold any gravity with the situation. “What?” he says weakly. “J-Jerome—” He turns his head when Jerome strokes the flat of his own palm over Bruce’s clothed cock. Bruce’s cheek presses against the cool silk of his sheets as he moans, not even recognizing his own voice. 

“I shoulda brought candles,” Jerome remarks, taking his hand off Bruce to get him undressed instead. Bruce is in a strange fog that’s getting heavier from the alcohol and the sexual arousal and he’s as easy to break apart as anything when Jerome pulls his shoes and slacks off. 

“I shouldn’t. . . let you see me naked,” Bruce says, sounding as vague about the protest as he feels even as he lifts his hips so Jerome can tug his briefs down. “I can’t. I shouldn’t. This is just—just inappropriate. I thought you were in _prison_ , Jerome,” he ends on a whine. 

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: I broke out just to see you. _Really_. Rumor has it that I’ve got kind of a crush on you. But shhh, don’t tell anyone.” Jerome leans down to kiss Bruce’s mouth, rather sweet and gentle in a way that almost feels confusing. Bruce craves it, though, reaching up to thread his fingers through Jerome’s hair, but Jerome pulls away too quickly. 

Jerome laughs and smacks a wet, obnoxious kiss to Bruce’s cheek instead before carelessly flinging his own jacket aside. It’s a suit jacket that he’s thrown over his prison uniform, which really doesn’t match at all, Bruce thinks. At least the switchblade is gone and that makes him feel a little safer.

It makes Bruce exhale and bite his tongue when he gets to see Jerome without any clothes on. Even with the horrible scars on his face, he’s sort of beautiful, pale skin over corded muscles and long fingers and strong arms. 

“You’re very pretty, actually,” Bruce blurts out, feeling flustered when Jerome beams. 

“Always love hearing that. Except, like, when you’re at a family gathering and you forget to bring condoms, y’know?” Jerome spits on his palm and fingers before Bruce can work out what he’s saying and wraps his other hand around Bruce’s thigh, yanking him closer. 

“Bet you've never done this before," Jerome says, his teeth showing as he drags his slick fingers over Bruce's hole. Bruce bites down on the side of his hand, teeth sunk into his own skin so he won't make any noise. This is quite literally the definition of 'too far gone'. "That little street rat bitch who licks your shoes doesn't touch you like this, does she?" 

"Don't, you don't know her," Bruce says when he drops his hand from his mouth, flushing a starker red from anger and embarrassment. "Leave her out of this or I'll—I—ngh." He tenses up, his breath coming short and uneven when Jerome presses a finger into him.

It's uncomfortable and strange and painful and Bruce honestly hates it. Jerome either doesn't notice or care (probably the latter) and pushes his finger in to the knuckle, making Bruce wince and complain. 

"I think you're doing this wrong," Bruce says, his voice somewhat strangled. "Jerome—this hurts, you're definitely, you're doing this wrong!" He squeaks when Jerome crooks his finger inside Bruce, striking a sensitive spot that makes Bruce's hips snap. Jerome looks so smug and entertained that Bruce wants to punch him in the face, especially for making him, Bruce, feel so on-edge and pained and needy all at the same time. 

“Bruce, I’d say I’m, ah, pretty much a _professional_ when it comes to this shit. The only time I ever do this wrong is on purpose.” Jerome spits on his fingers again and buries two inside Bruce this time. It stretches and aches and tears prick at the corners of Bruce’s eyes. “I grew up on sodomy the way you grew up watchin’ Saturday morning cartoons.” 

“I-I didn’t—” Bruce hisses and clenches his teeth together, trying to deal with the friction. He doesn’t notice the desperation between his hipbones anymore. “I didn’t watch a lot o-of those. Or sodomy. Didn’t—see that either.”

“Guess I gotta show you reruns.” Jerome dips his head down and runs his tongue along Bruce’s cock, holding the underside. Bruce shudders and grabs at the bedsheets at his side, his free hand automatically delving into Jerome’s hair. It proves useful when Jerome moves lower and tongues a loose, lazy circle around where his fingers are moving and Bruce’s hand reflectively clenches, getting something to grab hold of. 

This feels so much better than anything Bruce has been given so far. The pain he’s been trying to get used to is getting duller and Jerome’s mouth on him feels good enough to make him sink into the bed. He really moans this time, twisting his fingers around Jerome’s hair and pulling on it. He releases his grip on the sheets to curl it around his cock instead, but Jerome snatches his wrist and holds it down instead. 

“Don’t you dare come yet,” Jerome mutters. He shoves his fingers deep inside Bruce, spreading him open. Bruce swears and almost kicks Jerome in the back with his heel out of reflex, holding tight to violently ginger hair. 

Jerome straightens up far too soon, looks satisfied far too soon. When he pulls his fingers back out again and drools on his palm, Bruce’s stomach plummets with the realization of what‘s going to happen next. 

“This is going to hurt,” he says warily. “Jerome, I know this’ll hurt worse.”

”World’s greatest detective,” Jerome announces. “Better make that your full-time occupation. Kill off Gordon and take his job, why don’t ya? You’d look hot in a uniform.” He brushes his fingers over Bruce’s hole, letting saliva drip down to the mattress. Bruce, spread out and almost feverish, his head still trying to fall asleep while his body trembles, manages to think in a fog about how Jerome’s still going to linger after he leaves. Not just literally. But figuratively. Of course. The point is, Bruce is going to fall asleep on these sheets again after Jerome leaves the manor. 

(That’s disgusting. All of this is disgusting. Bruce is struck with a sickening fear that Alfred might be able to hear them if they’re loud enough and Bruce would rather die on the spot than try to explain any of this. He doesn’t know how to explain it to himself.)

Jerome holds Bruce’s hips, pulling him up and apart. Bruce can hear his own breath quickening as Jerome presses the head of his leaking cock against Bruce. 

“I’m glad I got to be your first,” Jerome whispers, looking down at Bruce with an expression that’s sort of. . . tender. Bruce doesn’t understand it and he’s about to ask what the hell it’s for, but Jerome doesn’t miss a beat, canting his hips forward and pushing himself inside Bruce. 

It’s only a few inches at first, but still, Jerome is much thicker than his fingers and he’s not being gentle. There definitely wasn’t enough preparation for this. Bruce makes little noises that sound, to him, like a wounded deer, his lips parting and tongue falling from his mouth as he pants. Once Jerome starts actually moving, Bruce has the feeling that he’s going to black out from the overwhelming sensation of _everything at once_. 

Jerome is careless and selfish during sex, which doesn’t surprise Bruce in the slightest, but it still hurts. Like he’s bestial with claws instead of hands, he curls his fingers around the sides of Bruce’s midsection, holding him in place. It makes Bruce feel so much smaller, like he’s breakable. Like he could be snapped in two. He probably _is_ going to be snapped in two at this rate, with Jerome steadily fucking him without asking him if he’s feeling okay or if it’s too much or if he should slow down. 

“You—” Bruce tries to say, “you’d make—a horrible boyf-friend. God, _fuck,_ ” he gasps out as Jerome switches his angle ever so slightly and actually makes this feel, well, good. Really good. He’s touching that sensitive spot again. 

“Aw, Bruce, that hurts,” Jerome growls, his fingernails digging into Bruce’s skin. It bites like needles. “Hurts a lot. Thought we’d make a great team together.” He grinds his hips against Bruce, bending over him, pushing him into the bed. It’s rough and possessive, like Jerome is trying to claim him. Mark him up from the inside out. 

It takes longer than Bruce thinks it should, but he starts to understand why people choose to do this with people they love or hate or need for at least just one night. It strikes Bruce with a kind of terror that he might want to do this again, or that he’ll forgive Jerome for who he is for the sake of this, or that someone finds out, or that someone catches them together, or, or, or. There’s too many variables and Bruce can already tell he’s going to get a headache from thinking later. He closes his eyes and holds his blood-dark cock in his hand, squeezing his fingers around it, his mouth open. Blood is pumping through him to the point where it’s mostly the only thing he hears when it rushes through his ears other than Jerome's harsh breathing and Bruce's own name from cracked, scarred lips. 

Bruce is in ruins when he gets close. With locks of hair sticking to his forehead and his fingers slick and hot from precum, he tenses up and clenches around Jerome, which prompts Jerome to swear a little too loudly. 

Bruce almost sobs when he makes a sound from his throat closing itself up so much and his body working itself up. "Shut up, Alfred's going to—" He cuts himself off when his hips jerk and he spills over his stomach, barely moving his hand. 

Bruce fades in and out of the real world when he comes. The sleepiness from the alcohol has caught up to him and the loss of tension leaves him boneless. Jerome is still moving, but at least he doesn't last _much_ longer; he snarls out something blasphemous, his motions stuttering. His hands on Bruce's sides go slack and his head drops as he rides his orgasm out. 

For once, Jerome doesn't have anything to say, or Bruce just doesn't hear it. He leans down and presses his lips against Bruce's before he pulls out, stroking his cheek. Bruce leans into the touch, his breathing falling to a soft, steady rhythm. "Thank you, I guess," he mumbles. 

Jerome lets out this gentle laugh that Bruce likes. It's natural and legitimate and it feels secretive. "I'll see you around, won't I?" He noses Bruce's neck and peppers it with kisses. "I know I will. I'll plan something big for you. Real, real big."

"Don't hurt anyone," Bruce says vaguely. Talking right now is still a feat in and of itself. He's definitely slipping into a ten-hour coma. He doesn't even have the capacity to worry about Alfred, a huge relief. 

"People've always got their own ideas about entertainment, Bruce. If anyone gets hurt, well." Jerome presses a final kiss to Bruce's collarbone before climbing off the bed. "It's not gonna be on me. For the most part."

"Mm." Bruce thinks maybe Jerome is still talking—it's a safe bet he is—but nothing comes through. In the rarest state of bliss, he falls asleep for the first time in months without something still hammering at the back of his mind that'll force its way into his dreams. 

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from santa monica by the front bottoms.


End file.
